(no subject)

"Smoking's terrible for your health, you know. And if you get lung cancer, the company health plan won't cover it."

Beat.

"And it'll probably make you taste terrible, too."

"Lung cancer isn't really top on my list of worries right now, Bob." Tom sighs, stubs out the cigarrette, and tosses it away. "And the company health plan doesn't exist anymore."

". . . It'll still make you taste terrible."

"Shut up." He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall, hands hanging down between his knees. "I'm not letting you in."

There's a long pause, broken only by the soft, repetitive sound of zombies shuffling mindlessly against the glass doors.

"You know, Tom, I wish it hadn't come to this."

"Gee, really? Me too."

"I just feel I have to say this."

No response.

"I always thought your code was inelegant."

Tom twists to glare up at Bob, and then wishes he hadn't. The former manager's face hasn't gotten any better over the last couple days; teeth are starting to poke through the cheek that's pressed against the door, and the eye on that side of his face is looking more and more deformed. Also, it's leaking.

"And barely functional."

"Shut up."

"I was going to bring it up at your next performance review."

"For God's sake, shut up, Bob!" He scrambles up to his knees. "What the fuck difference does it make now?"

"Tom, I know you're under a lot of stress, but that's no excuse for insubordination--"